


A Tall, Thin, Black-Eyed, Blue-Haired God

by terracotta_heartbreak



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2D is just a mess, Car Accidents, Drunk Murdoc Niccals, Gen, Phase One (Gorillaz), Well - Freeform, lots of them - Freeform, pre phase one, so yeah Stu is in a catatonic state, why is murdoc like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-13 22:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terracotta_heartbreak/pseuds/terracotta_heartbreak
Summary: At nineteen, Stuart Pot's life spirals out of control, and one man seemed to change it the most in particular.





	1. Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Gorillaz fic so sorry if anything seems off. Constructive criticism is welcome in the comments.

Stuart Pot was the sort of boy who could get along with anyone.

Take, for instance, his current job, where he was rather happily right now trying to sell organs to a handful of customers, cheerfully demonstrating a keyboard by playing a bubbly sort of arrangement of I Saw Her Standing There to the awe-eyed little girl who'd suggested it. Seemingly, her parents were going to let her get lessons, because she must've been about six and way too excited by the instruments to have any experience of the pain that went in to messing up the same song a dozen times.

Stuart loved kids, and it was clear to see by the large smile on his face as he finished with a flourish then knelt down to get to a better sort of eye contact with her again. It was a large smile, one full of teeth and warmth and the girl returned it - though she seemed to be missing a few of her teeth.

"Now- the secret to playin' these fings is to stretch out your fingers, so you should probably practice that,"

Still focused on the kid, he held out one of his own hands and showed her one of his - admittedly long-fingered - hands and stretched out those keyboard playing units of his, and with a little giggle, she held up her own little hand to return the gesture. Seemingly happy, these parents then took their daughter by said hand and to the counter, deep in a discussion over buying her first instrument, leaving Stuart to glance back around the store for a moment.

Today it happened to be just the two of them - himself and Jack - and because it was a Friday, about 2pm, it seemed like nobody was in now, as was the usual on a weekday afternoon. He knew that business might perk up a bit within the next few hours of his shift (which ended at five) but right now, nothing, and Jack seemed to pick up on that.

”’Ey Stu- just gonna’ go ‘ave a fag,”

A short wave from the blue-haired, blue-eyed boy was all that needed to be given, and the older man had already disappeared to the back of the shop to light one and smoke. It wasn’t that Stuart minded either, and being alone for a few minutes was sort of nice. Thinking to himself a little, he wandered over to a keyboard by the window and started to finger some chords, similarly absent-mindedly.

Not out of the usual for Stuart, improvising chords and humming a little melody was a nice pastime when he was alone and thinking to himself. Right now, playing some stupid major sounding progression in A major, he was thinking about some of the birds flying by the window, watching them bask in the late summer heat with a smile curving onto his lips. People, cars and life seemed to be passing by too, just like any day, but he wasn’t exactly focused on that.

But he should’ve been. 

Because now, on this average, normal August Friday afternoon outside an organ shop in England, it seemed that a car was speeding too fast down the street, and a loud _screech_ suddenly seemed to dominate the air - a drone over the sounds of the keys.

Sirens - police sirens - could be heard from far in the distance. Something was up. Something was bad. And Stuart felt his fingers fall numb and stop dead on the keyboard, though he didn’t move them off.

Alert, but not exactly suspecting anything, Stuart kept an eye focused on the street outside the window, frozen still by a mix off fear, worry and curiosity. 

What was going on?

In a matter of moments, he saw it - the car, though he wasn’t sure what make or anything about it - he couldn’t even make out the driver, but he did know it was headed towards them. Headed towards this very shop.

A few small, strangled steps back from the keyboard we’re all he managed, becoming even more shellshocked with each moment, but a loud crash, the patter of glass and Jack’s hurried footprints all meshed together into a loud dynamic crescendo until suddenly things just went black.

The last thing he remembered- the last thing? It must’ve been that noise, the overwhelming panic, the veichle itself, but everything in a strange blur.

But then, now Stuart wouldn’t even be able to register the fact someone had just smashed through the window and hit their car straight into his eye.


	2. Looking after a God-Damned Vegetable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was, during this time, that Murdoc Niccals would have happily destroyed the Great British legal system if it meant he never had to see that bloody vegetable again.

Murdoc Niccals was the type of man who got himself into a lot of trouble then cursed the outcome every time.

From his perspective, it wasn’t fair; it wasn’t fair that no matter how hard he worked and tried to get a band together, things crashed and burnt and turned to shit.

Rather literally this time.

What had happened that day - August 15th - had been all down to, once again, all been down to the burning desire to make something of himself, become famous and stick a flaming middle finger up the arse of either God, society or his dad. Didn’t really care which one.

What was meant to happen - his _real_ plan - would’ve been magnificent. He was going to smash that stupid Vauxhall Astra through the window of the Keyboard shop then steal as many synthesisers as he’d need for this new band of his. Annoyingly, he’d been almost excited for this new band, looking forward to making it big, but what he hadn’t anticipated was that the biggest, most gormless mong in England might be stood at the window then get dragged into the fray.

With a frustrated sort of snort, Murdoc glanced up at said vegetable, who was currently positioned in the corner in his stupid wheelchair.

Stuart Pot. That was what his name was, according to the courts, his parents and the legal doccument saying he had to look after him for ten hours a week. Murdoc hated him already, more out of principle than knowing the kid at all. The kid just sat there, just drooled, just blankly stared or kept his eyes closed.

Not that he’d ever admit it, but Murdoc was rather unsettled by the kid’s eyes. Well- one of them was black, completely black and dead looking, and apparently that was Murdoc’s own fault from the crash. According to the doctor, the car had fractured his eye, blood had risen to the front or something and it’d ended up like that. The other one was normal - blue - and though it had a bit of life to it, it usually just blankly stared at him.

The kid wasn’t the ugliest though, or he wouldn’t be ugly if he didn’t have his head lolled to the side uncomfortably and a thick layer of drool running down his chin.

Babysitting a vegetative moron wasn’t fun. It was stupid and frustrating and he’d give it up right now if it didn’t mean prison. Of course, it was only ten hours a week, nothing compared to what the kid’s parents had to deal with, but Murdoc wasn’t exactly worried about them and how they were doing. All he could think of was the present and how he seemed to have to deal with things.

The old, broken, stupid clock on his wall told him it was 6pm or time to feed the kid, head down the pub and go drop him back home. Yes, in that order.

Feeding the kid was a nightmare. A bloody catatonic mess was hard to feed and it tended to mean having to help him open his mouth before feeding him anything too, and even then it was hardly interesting food. Just stuff that was annoyingly easy to eat apparently, like baby food. 

After a few mouthfuls of what was honestly just burnt fried rice that’d been cooked in Murdoc’s faulty microwave, the kid let out a  little snort and his eyes flickered closed again, allowing Murdoc to now focus on the ugly bruising that seemed to dominate his face.

Brown, blue and purple seemed to melt into one across his face, but he was honestly very pale. Murdoc knew the particularly nasty bruise over his left eye was completely his fault, but a part of him didn’t care. When his community service was up it wouldn’t matter and he could form another band.

With a loud, frustrated, sudden huff, Murdoc threw himself off the broken chair he’d been sat on and threw a kick towards Stuart in his wheelchair for good measure, suddenly pissed off again by the thought of his old band.

As soon as Billy and Rocky saw this stupid, blundering, catatonic imbecile they’d just laughed at the whole situation, nicked some food then quit the band. A few more phone calls and everyone else seemed to say the same.

It was, during this time, that Murdoc Niccals would have happily destroyed the Great British legal system if it meant he never had to see that bloody vegetable again.

It was easy to lay the blame on the moron sat opposite him. After all, Stuart was helpless and Murdoc was looking after him. Allegedly.

Maybe Murdoc was just disappointed because he’d been guaranteed success and it still hasn’t done and now he had no band, no contacts and no plan. Just a stupid teenager to look after and a hellishly good bass and he couldn’t even find people because he was so busy looking after this stupid fucking kid.

Another grunt and Murdoc had grabbed the wheelchair a bit haphazardly, deciding it was about time they left this stupid, rancid apartment and maybe went somewhere else, but busy thinking of what crazy life he might be living if this kid wasn’t in the way.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way to get rid of this kid before all that community time was up.


	3. Literally this is why I hate Tesco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh? Happy D-Day have a late update.

Stuart Pot wasn’t the kind of kid with any control over his life right now. Head tilted almost lazily to the side, there was a collecting string of saliva falling into his lap, and he was pretty much unattended in this moment. Not that he knew or could exactly complain about it, he wasn’t even conscious, just breathing, drooling, sleeping and somewhat eating when whoever was looking after him fed him something, even if it was usually something mushy and horrible. And his state, this vacant state he lived in, could be pretty variable depending on who was looking after him.

Right now, for instance, it was a man he didn’t know. Unlike when his mum or dad had any time looking after him, he’d be a bit better. Not like it was a cure, of course, but he’d get some sort of familiarity, some warm, happy feeling from deep down, even if he didn’t even know it himself.

The same couldn’t be said, however, for the strange man looking after him right now. Confused, he didn’t know this man, didn’t recognise him, had never met him in his life. But he did seem to get a feeling around him too. Stuart didn’t know this man, Stuart couldn’t know what this man had done to him, what he looked like because of this man, he was just blind to the whole situation, oblivious to the world around him.

Uncomfortably positioned in his shitty wheelchair, he was facing a broken car wingmirror, but there was no recollection of the reflection in his blue eye. But the boy he was staring at was deathly white, bruised and battered, with the other eye purely black, though both were equally vacant and dead.

Noise was everywhere around him but he couldn’t make it out - it was just there, unintelligible and overwhelming. And there were more people, strangers, but he didn’t know who they were, couldn’t focus on what they looked like or anything. They were just there, and he wasn’t.

Now he was shoved into the back of a car, rather haphazardly, and there was just- some sort of energy that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint. Noise. More noise.

The car was moving - fast - though it was all just a big haze in his brain, something like a vague nightmare that felt too vivid. Like his life was flashing before him but he didn’t even know what it was anymore. But then he kept getting thrown around, now nothing more than a puppet bring slung around just for amusement. Around, around and around, the car just kept accelerating, screeching and urtching whilst he perilously flew around until suddenly the car itself just came to a sudden halt and Stuart’s heart seemed to leap straight from his scrawny little chest.

70 miles per hour.

Now his life actually did flash before his eyes. Or his head. Smashing against the front window of whatever stupid machine it was, every bone in his body felt as if on fire, and, flying through the air of the abandoned Tesco carpark in the middle of the night, he had the sickly feeling that he might’ve been. And now within five seconds, five horrific, hellish, burning seconds, he’d skidded half a mile across the ground.

It took a lot longer than those five seconds to realise what’d happened, but, with no concept of the time himself, he just blinked, face against the gravel, tears mingling with blood mingling with dirt. Everything hurt - every part of his body, and a throbbing pulse, a violent pounding drum, had begun in his head like a war cry, some call to war or warning. But it took longer to realise that he- well he- he had no idea about anything. Nothing at all.

Heavy breathing interrupting the quiet of the night, the boy seemed a little oblivious to the gathering crowd that’d finally caught up to him after what must’ve been a number of minutes now, and finally, like a zombie rising from the grave, he made an attempt to get his ass off the floor.

Shakily, a long-fingered hand reaches it’s way up to the nearby lampost and used it as an anchor, taking a long time to pull himself up, amidst the gaps of a few watchers. Head down, knees awkwardly bowed inwards, but tall, thin and illuminated by the lamplight, it was an oddly attractive sort of sight. At least, it was attractive until he’d raised his face enough to look around and scan the scene.

Both eyes were black now- vacant, vapid holes that just emptily looked at the people for someone, for anyone he recognised. Mouth slightly agape, he was clearly confused, shocked maybe, and with a few clumsy, stumbled steps forward, he could’ve been pretty dead. It didn’t help, in any situation, that almost all his face was covered in a wet mixture of mud and blood, nastily scraped, bruised or straight up close to falling off in places. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was clear he could make a rather pretty young man in a different situation.

“Uh-“

He spoke quietly, almost timidly, but in a voice brimming with confusion, fear and an overwhelming buildup of anxiety.

More moments passed and people had started to turn away now, apparently grossed out by the whole thing, but something else caught his attention, properly for the first time. A greenish, knobbly sort of hand with long, pointed fingernails wrapped its way around his wrist and it’s owner - a tall, strange man he didn’t recognise - seemed to be pulling him forward, though he was sort of struggling to keep up with the man’s pace and strange, throaty rambling directed at him.

“Bloody- what the bloody hell am I-“

Too overwhelmed by every single little detail littering the world around them, Stuart seemed to block this whole thing out, wishing that he had some kind of idea what to do with himself now.


End file.
